The Poet's Task

The Poet’s Task

A poet is a man with words,

And words a weapon are.

His words are sharply stropped and so

He makes them travel far.

He makes them cover many miles,

Emotive ones at that,

Digest those miles, absorbs their styles,

Gestate them, thinking back.

Then, having indigestion, our

Young poet now must crumble,

Or re-invest those travelled words

In a new song, strong but humble.

He reaches in to get the feel,

He crawls to depths un-shared.

He wonders is that’s all there is

And dances with despair.

But he reaches out to touch

The great Designing Hand

By whom all things were made, who took

That great creative stand,

Whose mind spun wildly when He thought

Of making man like Him,

With vivid sensitivities,

A heart to reach and dream.

He stretches, and the Hand is there

To touch and know the power

Of gentle sensitivity

In this harmonious hour.

He starts to write he knows not what,

Marvels at the sight

Of these rich words that tumble out

In order neat and tight,

The words are sharp. They know their place.

Their rhythms dance and play.

He dances too, though the tune is new,

The words make no delay.

They place themselves before his eyes.

His eyebrows on the rise,

His eyes wide open watching while

His hand the keyboard plies.

He takes a breath before he reads

What he has written down.

His heart expands, and satisfied,

He thinks of what he had inside

And finds it grandly multiplied

While he seems just the clown.